THE CITY OF YENISEISK—_continued_.
A visit to the prison—First impressions of the Siberian system.
[Illustration: A PRISON BEAUTY.]
I was naturally anxious to see something of the prison system here. On
hearing of my desire, the governor of Yeniseisk, with whom I had got on
very friendly terms, courteously offered not only to let me accompany him
on one of his weekly inspections of the prison, but also to let me make
some sketches of what I should see, if I so desired. I naturally jumped
at the offer, and on the appointed day I was punctual to the appointment,
and we drove together in his sledge. It was an intensely cold day; in
fact, the coldest I had yet experienced, there being no less than 28 deg.
of frost (Réaumur), so one simply had to bury one’s self in one’s furs,
and avoid talking as much as possible.
[Illustration: THE GOVERNOR VISITING THE MEN’S PRISON, YENISEISK.
[_To face p. 109._]
The building, which is on the outskirts of the town, offers nothing of
interest from the outside, being an ordinary two-story brick building,
looking much like most prisons anywhere. It is placed in close proximity
to the barracks, so that in case of need military assistance is readily
available. At the gates of the courtyard, where a sentinel was stationed,
we were received by the _personnel_ of the establishment—the director of
the prison, a tall, thin, military-looking man in a shabby uniform, with
a long sword by his side, and a huge astrachan _képi_ on his head—and
five undersized little jailers, who were armed with cutlasses and big
revolvers, which looked much too large for them. I learnt afterwards that
the director was a Polish exile, who had been sent to Siberia after the
last insurrection in Poland, and, at the expiration of his sentence, had
elected to remain in Siberia as the director of the criminal prison of
Yeniseisk. We then entered the building. Once inside the heavy iron-bound
doors, the temperature was delightfully warm as compared with outside,
and, as is usual in Siberia, an even heat everywhere, on the stone
staircases, in the corridors, and in the rooms. So far as warmth is
concerned, the prisoners certainly have nothing to complain of. After
considerable unlocking of big padlocks and removing ponderous bars,
we entered the portion of the prison occupied by men undergoing long
sentences for felony and other offences. It was a big sort of vaulted
hall, dimly lighted by a few heavily grated windows on one side. Under
the windows the whole length of the room was a very wide sort of sloping
shelf, which serves as a sleeping-place; and ranged against this shelf,
shoulder to shoulder, stood a long line of prisoners in the usual prison
garb of Siberia. On our entry, they all as with one voice called out,
in a deep guttural bass tone, the word “_Sdrasteté!_” (Good day), to
which the governor replied by a military salute. As we walked slowly
up the line I had a good opportunity of a near inspection of the most
awful-looking crowd of ruffians I have ever seen. Perhaps the ill-fitting
garment they wore added to the effect; still, with very few exceptions,
vice was written on their faces, and I was not astonished to learn that
most of them were old criminals, and had been there many years. This hall
led into another, and yet another, with the same long lines of unkempt
ruffians. Somehow, on looking at them, I could not help thinking of the
awful photographs one sees outside the Morgue in Paris. I remarked to the
governor what a dreadful thing it must be for a young man for a first
and perhaps trivial offence to be thrown among such a crowd of rascals,
who have nothing to do all day but sleep and eat, and who are under no
supervision whatever except that of an occasional visit from one of the
insignificant jailers. He agreed with me that the system is a wrong one,
but, said he, “Que voulez-vous? Il n’y a pas de place pour les caser tous
seuls.” My astonishment was that five such little warders could keep such
a crowd in order; but doubtless the knowledge of the close proximity of
the barracks has a wholesome effect.
In the corner of each hall, close up by the ceiling, was the
indispensable sacred picture, or _ikon_; looking strangely incongruous
in such foul surroundings. Still, even in this dismal place there was
a touch of humour. As we passed slowly through, one miserable wretch
complained to the governor that his coat did not fit; to which the
governor very neatly replied that he could do nothing in the matter. If
people wanted their clothes to fit they should not come there!
We then visited the murderers’ department, which was in the upper story.
There were no less than thirty men and women waiting their trial on this
charge. Capital punishment does not exist in Russia, so the worst these
prisoners can expect is hard labour at the mines for a certain number of
years, after which they are free to live in Siberia, but not to return
to Russia. In this portion of the prison the rooms were smaller, and
only contained, at the most, a dozen men in each. All these prisoners,
though as yet untried, were, without exception, in irons. Several of the
most desperate characters were in solitary confinement. In one of the
“solitary” cells was a tall, good-looking man, who had murdered an old
woman—a foul and brutal murder, I heard, and committed for the sake of a
few roubles only. He complained bitterly about being shut up all alone,
as, he said, he had done “nothing.”
[Illustration: THE MURDERERS’ DEPARTMENT, YENISEISK PRISON.]
“How nothing?” said the governor; for the man had been taken red-handed,
and, in fact, had never denied his guilt.
“It was _only a woman_ I killed!” was the whining reply, and then he
looked astonished at the expression of disgust on our faces on hearing
this little speech.
There is no doubt about it that the solitary-confinement system is the
one with the most terror in it. I could not help trying to imagine
the feelings of the caged ruffian as he saw the door shut, and heard
the heavy bars drawn and the massive padlock replaced—very different,
probably, to those of the rascals in the large hall below, who doubtless,
as soon as we were out of hearing, recommenced their pandemonium.
The women’s prison, which we afterwards visited, struck me as being a
curious sight, and reminded me not a little of Dickens’s description of
the old “Fleet” or “Marshalsea” prisons. The inmates seemed free to do
what they pleased—of course, with the exception of leaving the place—and
the effect on entering was most extraordinary. The room was full of
steam, for it was “washing day,” I was informed, and overhead was quite a
network of ropes with wet clothes on them, hung up to dry. Dirty, unkempt
children crowded round us as we entered, while, through an open door
leading to an adjoining department, appeared a lot of semi-clad females,
who regarded us with a curiosity devoid of all modesty. There was here
none of the respect which we were shown in the men’s quarters, for these
sullen-looking, half-naked women evidently looked upon our visit as an
unwarrantable intrusion on their privacy.
As a result of my very interesting morning, I could not help coming to
the conclusion that, at any rate as far as I could judge, the criminals
of Siberia have little to complain of. They pass their forced seclusion
in absolute idleness, if they so wish, for the work they do, if any, is
voluntary—eating and sleeping, they while away the time as best they
can, like so many caged beasts.
[Illustration: THE GOVERNOR VISITING THE WOMEN’S PRISON, YENISEISK.
[_To face p. 112._]
[Illustration: CRIMINAL PRISONERS WAITING AT YENISEISK FOR CONVOY TO
START FOR KRASNOIARSK.
[_To face p. 113._]
On another occasion I had an opportunity of seeing a batch of criminal
prisoners start for Krasnoiarsk, where they were being sent for trial.
They were all assembled in the hall of the Palais de Justice, and a
strange crowd they looked, sitting along the wall on a bench, dressed
in their drab kaftans, which serve them as overcoats. Round about
lolled the guard which was to escort them half-way to Krasnoiarsk,
half a dozen undersized soldiers (not “Cossacks,” as they are often
erroneously described), with rifles and fixed bayonets. All were well
wrapped up for the journey, with huge woollen comforters round their
necks, black gloves, and felt boots on. I had no difficulty in getting
them to remain still while I made a sketch, for they seemed readily to
understand what I wanted, even to the prisoners. As usual, when I had
finished, no one evinced the slightest curiosity to see the result. A few
minutes afterwards they started, under the command of a non-commissioned
officer. And a curious procession it was, for none of the prisoners
seemed to feel their position, and walked just as they pleased. I could
not help thinking that the soldiers had the worst of it, burdened as they
were with their heavy rifles, ammunition, and accoutrements, while the
prisoners had absolutely nothing to carry. The soldiers from Yeniseisk
only go half-way, when they meet a convoy from Krasnoiarsk, and exchange
prisoners. The journey takes about a week, as they only travel about
fifty versts a day, and only during the daylight.
There is no prison for “political exiles” in Yeniseisk. Most of this
class of _déportés_ who are living in the town have already served their
term of punishment elsewhere, and have elected to remain in Siberia,
where they probably find the life not half so bad as it is painted; or,
as is often the case, were banished “for life” from Russia, and condemned
to pass the remainder of their days in Yeniseisk or some other town or
village.
In the case of a well-connected and educated man being sent from, say,
Moscow or St. Petersburg, or some other important city in Russia, for a
long period to some remote Siberian village, the punishment must be a
severe one. From the little I have seen of these villages on our way up
the river, I can imagine no fate more dreadful than to be shut up alone
in one of them, among a lot of unsympathetic and ignorant peasants, with
no books to read, and entirely out of touch and hearing of the civilized
world. Better almost to be buried alive! When, however, instead of to an
out-of-the-way village, he is consigned to a biggish town like Yeniseisk
or Krasnoiarsk, his fate is certainly not so hard. He is allowed to live
how and where he pleases; if he has money of his own he is permitted to
receive it; and if he is a sociable man he will soon find that he is
not treated as an outcast, even by the officials, who, at any rate at
Yeniseisk, are, I hear, the very embodiment of courtesy and politeness,
though I believe it to be the same all over Siberia; and he will probably
soon settle down to his new life, and, as is often the case when the
sentence is not a “life” one, he will eventually decide to remain in a
country which, though doubtless not all _couleur de rose_, is certainly
not all black.
Still, there are many fine fellows whose fiery spirits not even exile
to Siberia can tame, and who are only biding their time to return to
Russia and start a fresh struggle for freedom—with possibly (or rather,
probably) the same, or a worse, result to themselves.
There are a few of this sort here. One of them, M. X., an evidently
well-educated man of about forty, was sent to Siberia for five years,
two out of which he passed in a village, the rest in Yeniseisk. His time
is up soon, when he will be allowed to return to Russia again, but not
to live in a University town. His wife accompanied him into exile. I met
them out one evening at a friend’s house, and had a long and interesting
talk with both of them in French, as I was anxious to learn something of
his experiences. I could not help remarking to Madame that after what her
husband had undergone he would, doubtless, on his return to Russia, not
meddle with politics again. To my astonishment, she replied—
“_Nisnaia?_” (Who can tell?)
“What!” said I, “is not once sufficient to come to Siberia?”
But she shook her head, and answered, “It is very difficult to remain
silent when one sees the state of things in Russia, and one knows how
very different it is in other countries. If no one takes the initiative,
it will never be changed.”
We were on delicate ground, so I thought it best to change the subject,
as one can never tell who may be listening. Moreover, politics are not in
my line. However, I managed later on to have a further chat with M. X. on
the subject, and he corroborated the words of his wife, in spite of my
asking him if he had not had enough of it already in Siberia, for if he
were again caught tripping he would doubtless not get off so easily, but,
in all probability, be sent to the mines. “_Surovno!_” (It is all the
same to me!) was his characteristic reply. The idea that they are wasting
their lives on a cause which is not yet nearly ripe for solution, and
which, for the moment, only time can help, never seems to occur to these
men, who plod away cheerfully into Siberia with the firm conviction that
they are making martyrs of themselves in the cause of liberty, whereas,
in reality, they are only helping to colonize this vast continent.